


trying to hold the wind

by DecayingPapers



Series: girasoli alla finestra [2]
Category: Druck | SKAM (Germany)
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Family, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Summer, the ocs are matteo's grandparents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 18:30:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19362217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DecayingPapers/pseuds/DecayingPapers
Summary: His heart skipped a bit, at first, at the mere thought of going with Matteo. But then, they were strangers after all, he kept reminding himself, and he was a stranger to them. David only decided a month before they were supposed to leave that he didn’t really want to be one.There’s doubt eating away at the excitement he’s been trying to focus on since they started packing. David finds a bench for them to sit on and tilts his head back, pushing it down.He marvels.–Staying a stranger, David realises, is more difficult than not being one at all.





	trying to hold the wind

**Author's Note:**

> this is a follow-up to the first fic in the series where matteo reconnects with his grandmother; of course this will make more sense if you read 'wind, take me home' first
> 
> hope u enjoy!!
> 
> ps let's go, even more projecting!
> 
> title from mitski's 'strawberry blond'

The air is still cool with the remains of a night breeze as they step onto the platform, but David can already feel the heat of a summer day nearing, just about ready to stifle all wind.

It feels good to be out in the open though, without the confines of a small compartment, shared with three other people who, just like Matteo and David, looked like they would rather be anywhere else. The air conditioning gave out about three hours into the journey, and then the train stopped for an hour in what really looked like the middle of nowhere, and there were only so many times David could walk up and down the narrow corridor, step into the tiny bathroom, move even just a bit, until it felt weird. He napped a little, right before they had to change trains, and it was Matteo struggling to get their backpacks down that woke him up. Or, actually, it was Matteo’s backpack falling into David’s lap.

All in all, the train ride wasn’t comfortable or entertaining, nor did it give him a thrill of adventure like he’d tried to convince Matteo it would. But it was bearable. At some point, they went to get coffee, which neither of them finished; it tasted watered down and stale at the same time, and no amount of sugar could fix that – after all, maybe it was for the best. Neither of them really should be drinking coffee, if David was honest.

That’s a good word for the time on the train – bearable, except for the minutes David spent by an open window in the narrow corridor, the air blowing into his face and everything moving in the dark. It didn’t feel like escaping this time. David had been worried it would.

And so, as the morning sun gets more and more persistent, David breathes in the warm air and walks beside Matteo, leaving the platform behind. Matteo is calling his grandpa who insisted on picking them up, even though Matteo, with David’s support, tried to convince his grandparents that they would manage to get there on their own. It’s a nice thought, really, and Mrs Florenzi didn’t want to hear anything about buses or, to her terror, hitchhiking. They really went with the host thing, David thinks; they insisted on buying them the train tickets, too, and that took a little more convincing for David to accept it.

Just deciding whether or not they would go, or if they would go together, took some time. Matteo hadn’t been there for five years and, as much as he’d been reconnecting with his father’s parents, it was another thing to spend two weeks there with a handful of his cousins. And then there was the fact that Matteo’s grandparents invited David, too. His heart skipped a bit, at first, at the mere thought of going with Matteo. But then, they were strangers after all, he kept reminding himself, and he was a stranger to them. David only decided a month before they were supposed to leave that he didn’t really want to be one.

There’s doubt eating away at the excitement he’s been trying to focus on since they started packing. David finds a bench for them to sit on and tilts his head back, pushing it down.

He marvels. The pleasant morning breeze is barely even there anymore, and Matteo hangs up, saying his grandpa shouldn’t take too long. There’s nervousness in everything about him, too, and it does make David feel a bit better; more sure. They both decided they want it more than they don’t, and David believes in that.

Matteo knocks his knee against David’s.

“Thanks for going with me. Really.” His actions are playful, his words sincere – a heart-wrenching, purely Matteo combination that somehow always manages to catch David by surprise. He just closes his eyes and hums in answer, head still tilted back towards the sky; he knows Matteo is looking at him. It used to feel off when they first started hanging out, the quiet way Matteo pays attention; it was too much like scrutiny, too much like evaluation. Now, though, David feels more seen than watched, and so he takes a second more to take in the sun and goes to take out his journal where it’s been hastily stuffed at the top of the backpack.

He hands it over to Matteo and lets him flip through the sketches he did as the sun rose outside the carriage. Matteo fell into a slumber as they neared Italy, though it can’t have been the best quality sleep – his head changed its position from leaning against the window to burrowing into David’s shoulder every half an hour or so. At some point, as Matteo napped against the dirty window, the sun just about started peeking out from behind the horizon. It drowned the compartment in reds and pinks and oranges, backlighting Matteo’s messy hair in a halo of dozens of small fires. It was the first time David had drawn in colour in weeks.

When Mr Florenzi gets there to pick them up, suddenly all the cool David has managed to gather flies straight out of the window. Matteo stands up and nudges him as they walk towards the car, but David doesn’t have it in him to tease him back; not with the way his heart rate picks up.

Mr Florenzi leans on his car, all short, silver hair and wind-roughed features, and somehow so familiar David might have been the one to come here when he was young, not Matteo. He tries to tell himself that he can survive this, he’s already gone through it with Matteo’s mum after all, and this here should be easier since he’s talked to both of Matteo’s grandparents on Skype. It’s not that easy to convince himself of that though; David can feel how clammy his palm is when he extends it, ready to shake. It takes him a second to notice Mr Florenzi’s open arms, and Matteo jumps in to his rescue – he hugs his grandpa, and David knows how much this means, thinks back to whispered memories of fishing and gardening, to fears of change mumbled into the crook of David’s neck as they were teetering between sleep and wakefulness.

When they’re done, David goes in to hug Mr Florenzi too, to his own surprise more than to Matteo’s. Mr Florenzi hugs him back, says his name into David’s shoulder, and David introduces himself too, the Italian less foreign on his tongue than it was several months ago. It’s the same way Matteo hugs, he thinks, and the thought makes David bite back a smile.

They get into the car – Matteo and him, to David’s relief, squeeze into the back together, their backpacks stuffed onto the passenger seat. Mr Florenzi says there’s no space in the trunk because _something_ is already in there. David doesn’t understand what it is, but he doesn’t care enough to ask Matteo. The car ride is pleasant enough. Matteo’s grandpa asks them about the train, and what they’ve been up to during the holidays so far. David starts, talks about the heat on the train, about his job; he does his best to remember the vocabulary he looked up in preparation for this exact conversation. He knows his grammar is shit, as is probably his pronunciation, but David can’t help the bubble of pride as Matteo chimes in to fill in the gaps of what David couldn’t say and he catches Mr Florenzi’s smile in the rear window.

They're the first ones to get there, apparently, with almost a whole day to spare before the others arrive. Mrs Florenzi is, of course, the same as she was in the grainy Skype window, but somehow more; her voice carries from one room to another in the open space. She waits for them in front of the house and David grips Matteo’s hand the second he notices her as they pull up into the driveway; Matteo squeezes back.

As soon as they get out of the car, she wraps them both up in a hug, even though her arms barely manage that. She comes up to around David’s nose, but only physically. Her presence, he can already tell, is enough for all of Tuscany.

The thing that brings David the most relief is how neither of Matteo’s grandparents make any of this weird, even though they could have, even unintentionally, in so many ways. The thought of being a stranger in what he knew was a house full of love made his palms itch; it all could have piled up, and David had thought of almost every scenario of that happening. He doesn’t know the language, he never actually met any of those people, he worries and mulls everything over, and his only connection to them is that he’s _Matteo’s boyfriend_.

As much as he adores the sound of that, there’s a palpable lightness in his chest at the way the Florenzis act as if David had been there countless times before and was just reconnecting with them, with the grass in front of the house, with the tiny windows in the attic.

He wonders whether this is what Jonas felt as well when he visited once with Matteo. David talked to him about that as they sat on the floor of Jonas’ flat’s living room, waiting for the rest of the boys to get there. It was right after David decided he wanted to go with Matteo and, as much as he did, there was the bone-set worry he couldn’t shake. Jonas said he didn’t remember much; they were twelve, maybe thirteen, and he burned his shoulders so much it hurt to wear a shirt. Though, he tells David, he remembers a quiet, not around him, as that was impossible with that many people, but somewhere within; a deep, content certainty that he was wanted there. As they step into the house, David lets himself hope for that, too.

The attic is apparently where they’re sleeping, and the second David steps in, something clicks inside him. It’s cheesy and corny, but he honestly couldn’t care any less. The sloping ceiling isn’t as low over their heads as he feared it would be; instead, it’s low enough for their presence there to feel like a whisper. A secret, shared. The sun hits the windows just right for a bit of dust to glimmer right in front of David’s eyes.

It’s a bit hot, the air somehow too close to his body, but he notices a tiny fan on a stool there in the corner. David drops his backpack and catches Matteo’s eyes from where he’s taking out a change of clothes, and his smile blinds David more than the dust gleaming in the air.

They have breakfast on a tiny terrace that overlooks the garden; it’s just David and Matteo, and Matteo’s grandparents. David insists on helping, the need to make himself useful nagging in the back of his mind, even though his eyes seem to be closing on their own the second he leans on the cool kitchen counter. It’s the bits of sleep he managed to squeeze in between one walk down the train corridor and another, alongside with the relief of finally being there catching up with him. Matteo gets an armful of plates and Mrs Florenzi gives David the cutlery, budging in and letting him set the table.

“It’s not going to be like that every day, you know,” Matteo snickers, looking at David from across the table as he sets down the plates. “She’s only doing that because you could fall asleep and drop something any second.” Matteo plays it off as teasing, but David knows it’s thinly veiled reassurance. He told Matteo this, a film playing on low volume on his laptop; he told Matteo how this would all be part of so obviously being a stranger.

“Good,” is the only answer David comes up with, and after that it all blurs together.

The taste of orange juice lingers in David’s mouth as he takes a shower, the water cool on his skin. He thinks he might be starting to get what Matteo meant when he talked about his childhood holidays with that glazed-over look and a voice so soft it could be meant for David’s ears only.

When he gets back downstairs, Matteo is in the kitchen, chopping up celery with a knife way too intimidating for cutting vegetables; but that’s just David, whose inability to cook has banned him from the flat share kitchen mere weeks into his and Matteo’s relationship. Mrs Florenzi sits on the counter, sipping on a glass of water, and listens to Matteo.

David stands in the doorway for a couple of seconds and just watches; Matteo’s hair hangs over his eyes and there’s a faint blush high on his cheeks as he talks, the Italian so much smoother than David remembers it being when Matteo first decided to call his grandma all those months ago, shoulders tense and eyes scrunching. When he notices David standing there, so does Mrs Florenzi, and whatever Matteo was saying is cut short; it doesn’t really bother David. They both smile at him, an easy smile that just hits David with how alike they look, even though he’s never paid much attention to that before.

The rest of Matteo’s cousins start arriving late in the afternoon. Matteo says there’s way fewer of them, with some having moved out to far-away places, some just drifting apart with the family, and others, the oldest ones, caught up in the whirlwind of adulthood. One of the cousins has brought a boyfriend too, and he seems nice enough, so him and David share a nervous smile as the cousins all hug each other hello. It’s the feeling he got when they arrived that morning all over again, only ten times worse. The dread of _stranger, stranger, stranger_ nips at David’s easy smile as he extends his hand, repeats his name, concentrates to commit all the cousins’ names to memory as well.

Matteo showed David some them on social media, saying that’s the only way they’ve been keeping up with each other, so remembering everyone isn’t as hard as he feared it would be. Still, it’s work, especially paired with the awkwardness that sets in for the first couple of hours they’re all there.

“This is all so weird,” David whines into Matteo’s shoulder as he dries the dishes. The rest have gone to unpack and shower, yawning, and David volunteered himself and Matteo to clean up. He knows, they both know, it’s not just about being nice; neither of them says it, though.

Matteo hums in acknowledgement, scrubbing at a plate. His voice is quiet when he answers.

“David, you don’t have to earn anyone’s sympathy.” He puts away the plate and catches David’s hand in his before he can dry it; Matteos fingers are pruned from the dishwater. “We don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, I’d understand and they would, too, but you don’t have anything to prove here.”

There’s a beat of silence, two, three. David lets a breath out through his nose.

“They’ll find out you’re a dumbass sooner or later,” Matteo adds as he lets go of David’s hand and turns back to the sink. David snorts and smacks his back with the towel.

David tries to talk himself into letting it go all the way through putting the plates back into the cupboard, which Mr Florenzi tells him to leave be after a moment. He tries as he sits down on the front steps, the last blank page of his sketchbook glaring from his lap, and Mrs Florenzi sits down beside him quietly, setting two mugs of herbal tea between them. She asks him whether he likes art, and the conversation is simple enough that he manages, reminding himself he can stumble and mess up. He even ends up showing her one of the sketches he did on the train – a view from the window, complete with the tiny table and someone’s empty paper cup on it. The landscape is a bit blurry, which is a mix of David’s intentions and the constant movement of the train, and, right in the corner, there’s a mop of hair – Matteo’s.

The tea helps his thoughts settle down a little and he sips on it, the warmth welcome even though the evening air still carries dry, almost-hot wind.

When someone yells that the shower is free from the inside David starts getting up but he stops, his body turned towards Matteo’s grandma.

“Thank you. For inviting us. For inviting me.”

Mrs Florenzi scoffs and puts a small hand on his knee. She gets the same sincere look in her eyes as Matteo does, her heart there for everyone to see. It takes David by surprise for a second – he got used to her being so fierce, so much of everything during their Skype calls. Maybe he should have figured it’s not either-or.

“Thank _you_.”

She never says what for, and David doesn’t ask. He has a feeling neither of them really knows how to articulate it. They stay there, sitting at the steps of the front porch, for a couple more minutes.

It’s hot in the attic when they all finally find a place to sleep, sleeping bags bunched up and pillows punched to each of their liking. All the windows are wide open, mosquitoes buzz somewhere under the low ceiling, the fan’s whirring sound almost drowning it out, and David, as he lies back and absentmindedly listens to one of Matteo’s cousins telling a story about something, feels ten years old again. It feels a bit off – not being able to get what they’re laughing at, even though Matteo’s easy laugh from the sleeping bag on David’s right eases it, a little. Matteo looks at him every couple of minutes, eyes so seeing again, asking silently. David just shakes his head and smiles every time, and it’s true. He’s okay, for now. It doesn’t bother him.

David can feel himself drifting towards sleep when he hears one of Matteo’s cousins, probably the one with the boyfriend, mutter ‘ _shit’_ under her breath. It makes him raise his head a bit from the lumpy pillow, looking at where she’s sat up on the other side of Matteo.

“David, do you, uh, go to university?”, she asks, in English, and David’s smile feels like it could split his face in half.

After that, there’s a routine of some sorts, and routines are good. They always eat together, breakfast, then lunch, then dinner, all on the terrace. They make arrangements as to who cleans up afterwards, who sets the table, who makes drinks and food and whatever else it is they need. David sticks to the dishwashing duty, along with one of Matteo’s cousins – the one who asked him about university. She’s tall and loud, her hair buzzed, and David learns she plays basketball. They talk about their plans for the next year in a clumsy mix of English and Italian over the kitchen sink.

Matteo and his grandma make dinner most days, and sometimes his grandpa chimes in too. Matteo has told David about this so much – how this very kitchen was always a safe haven: cool, shielding from the sun and everything overwhelming in the outside world. Seeing him there, so obviously comfortable and at home, makes David’s chest swell every night.

Another part of the routine is walks. There’s an orchard in the back, behind the garden, and David makes it his goal to go on a walk there every night. Sometimes it’s before dinner, other days he sneaks out when everyone is fighting for the right to shower first. Once or twice Mr Florenzi accompanies him, quiet, save for a couple of sentences on the quality of this year’s pears. Matteo joins him most days; he always asks whether it’s okay, and David always nods with a smile. He knows Matteo wouldn’t make a big deal out of him saying no, but it’s been a long time since David hasn’t felt as at ease in Matteo’s presence as he does alone. Sometimes, even, Matteo being around makes everything lighter, easier, still. It’s a thought David has tucked away, right next to his heart, and he takes it out whenever he needs to.

The walks are their time to wind down, to breathe, because as much fun as David is having, being around that many people is exhausting and he knows it takes its toll on Matteo as well. David would normally take his journal with him, but it’s full – he used up way more space on the train than he’d anticipated. Instead, he folds loose pieces of paper into the pocket of his shorts, takes his favourite pen and hopes it doesn't spill. What he draws then is usually rough, especially with no hard surface to lean on. It's mostly ideas, fleeting thoughts captured mid-escape; it's the way the moon and stars bathe the grass in silver. It's a leaf, moved by the slightest gush of wind. It's Matteo's fingers, touching the bark of a tree in passing. It's the way it all feels on David's skin, everything light and precious; he is tempted to hide the drawings under his pillow for them to fuel his dreams.

There comes an evening, though, when the pen does spill, as David anticipated it would. He reaches into his pocket only for his hand to come up clutching it, fingers sticky and smudged with ink.

“Can you hold this for a second?” he sighs, stretching his hand out towards Matteo and trying to calculate whether the paper he took to sketch on will be enough to take care of the mess. Matteoshakes his head and steps back. He refuses David’s outstretched hand, grinning and way too pleased about the disaster.

And so David does what he has to do. He drops the pen, takes one step forward and then another, and puts his hands on Matteo’s face. He kisses Matteo, who has suddenly lost all his bravado, standing still, hands by his sides.

It’s as fleeting as anything in the moonlight, the kiss. Matteo draws in a breath, almost drowned out by the sounds of crickets chirping all around them, and kisses David back.

When they pull away, there’s a smudge of navy blue on the side of Matteo’s face, going from his forehead all the way down to his chin, and then back on his neck as well. David has to bite his lip to hold back a smile as he watches Matteo run his fingers over his face, trying to assess the damage. His attempts to pull back when Matteo wipes his hand on David’s own face are half-hearted at best, and they both know it. He trusts Matteo enough not to hold it against him. David presses another kiss into Matteo’s mouth, then his clean cheek, over the bridge of his nose, and his mouth again; he tastes of summer wind and the oranges they ate after dinner.

The kisses turn butterfly soft, barely there against David’s lips, and he realises his hand is in Matteo’s hair, strands sticking to David’s fingers with the ink. It’s a bit gross, he has to say, but Matteo’s face makes up for it. David knows washing the ink off is going to be hard as shit, but he can’t be bothered, not when it makes Matteo look like that – otherworldly in the blue moonlight. He’s a painting waiting to happen; lips red, cheeks flushed, navy swirling high on his cheekbone and low on his jawline. David catches himself holding his breath and exhales.

It takes a second for Matteo’s eyes to focus, but when they do, he manages exclaim an ‘ _Ew!_ ’ and takes off back towards the house, calling dibs on the bathroom. David picks up the pen and runs after him. He’s first to get there anyway, but he makes space for Matteo next to the washbasin.

They never go to sleep right after turning off the lights. David realises after a few days that he actually understands more and more from what they’re all talking about, but also, after the first night, they’ve started to check up on David, mixing languages where they can. David can’t file away that feeling he gets when they do that as anything specific, but it’s good. It’s really good. It’s even better because it’s not just Matteo making sure he doesn’t feel left out.

David is also getting more confident in actually speaking Italian, the insecurities he had about fucking up melting day after day after night. He looks up some words throughout the day, writes down vocabulary where he can, but mostly he listens and lets himself be listened to.

Matteo tells him over and over again how proud he is, how great he thinks David’s doing. All he gets in return are kisses, cut short by toothy grins David can’t contain.

One night everyone seems to make it their goal to one-up each other with embarrassing stories from their childhood. David actually sits up for that, biting back a smile and looking at a blushing Matteo every couple of minutes. It’s nothing too bad and most of the humour is actually the memories fuelled by nostalgia, but it’s fun to listen to and imagine.

David burns his neck and the backs of his legs a bit, but it’s nothing compared to the angry red on Matteo’s shoulders, spreading all the way down his chest and back. David would laugh at him if it wasn’t for how bad it hurt Matteo when David touched his skin. So, instead, he buys Matteo gelato. It’s half an hour on the bike to get to the small town, and they all go together one day. The scoops are uneven and delicious, and Matteo gets the gelato all over his nose when he tries to check what David’s tastes like.

It’s hot in the attic, but, somehow, David still forgets to take some water with him every night. And so, every single night finds him stepping over sleeping bodies, trying to will the floorboards not to creak, and walking all the way down to the kitchen. Matteo always turns over as David gets up, half-asleep and mumbling a barely understandable ‘ _what’s up?_ ’. David always stills for a second, waiting for Matteo to burrow his face back into the pillow. It’s never entirely dark as David gets down – the old-fashioned lamp standing next to the landline is always on, but this night David cansee the light is on in the kitchen too as he walks down the last flight of stairs.

He walks in and squints at the brightness; the tiles are cold under his bare feet. Mr Florenzi is sitting in one of the high chairs next to the counter, a steaming mug and a newspaper spread out in from of him. He hears David come in and looks up, adjusting the glasses that have slid low on his nose.

“Can’t sleep, hmm?” he asks. David hums in response and gets a glass of water, suddenly a bit embarrassed about how comfortably he’s behaving, but he pushes it down. He sits in the other chair and swings his legs.

“Well, I’m not the only one,” he replies, nodding in the vague direction of the mug of tea and Mr Florenzi’s tired eyes.

“I’m an old man, you know. So I think I get a pass.” Mr Florenzi smiles and they stay silent for a moment.

“It’s very nice here,” David says, because he has to say something and it’s not like he’s lying. Mr Florenzi nods, mulling it over.

“It is. Sometimes it gets a little quiet when you kids aren’t around, though,” he doesn’t make it sound like it’s a bad thing and David is glad. He also tries not to show his smile at already being considered one of _the kids_ ; it’s a thought for another day. “But it’s a good life we have here together.”

David believes him. There is something about the way Matteo’s grandparents are around each other that makes it impossible not to.

“How did you know you wanted your life to be this?” David flinches a bit at the way it sounds, but he doesn’t know how else to word it with the vocabulary he has. Maybe he wouldn’t know how to say it in German either – the question feels too big for the quiet night, too raw to be asking his boyfriend’s grandfather at half past one in the morning. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked at all. Mr Florenzi doesn’t seem to be offended though, so maybe, just maybe, it’s okay.

“I never knew I wanted a quiet life until we moved here, a long time ago.” Mr Florenzi takes a sip of his tea before he continues. “Still, somehow, after the first breakfast we had here together, just the two of us, I knew it all had to be here. With her,” his voice sounds rough with years and years of use, of laughter and patient words. David wants to be able to imagine that.

“But it’s okay if you don’t get that feeling right away, or if you’re not sure,” he adds and drinks the rest of the tea. There’s no steam rising from it now.

David only nods. The quiet that comes after that isn’t uncomfortable anymore, just calm. David thinks it’s what Jonas described when he talked to him before leaving. After a moment Mr Florenzi gets up, announcing he’s going to try to get some sleep, and David should, too. He turns around once more before stepping out of the kitchen though, glasses low on his nose again.

“You boys have your whole lives ahead of you. Trust yourself to live it.”

With that, he’s gone, and David can only hear the soft creaking of the stairs.

The evenings have to be David’s favourite thing about their time in Italy. It gets a little cooler, easier to breathe. The sky is painted different colours every night as the sun sets and David commits it to memory, files it away for when he has paint and a canvas, and for when he needs to remember. For now, it’s enough that he gets to see it.

The dinner usually stretches well into the evening until it gets completely dark and the mosquitoes get from inconvenient to unbearable. They still stay longer after that, even if it’s only a couple of minutes. There are stories always being told at the table; stories of family close and not, of children born, love confessed, but also gossip. David is somehow keeping up with most of the names and who is connected to whom, and how. He sometimes tells his own stories of adventures with Laura, with Matteo, their friends. David admits he misses them, repeats over and over how they’re the family he found and that _found him_. They all listen.

He notices that Matteo’s grandparents always hold hands under the table when they’re done eating – it makes his chest swell with a feeling he’s scared to name, but he doesn’t deny its existence. He knows it’s there, feels like he might know its aim, too.

Matteo’s laugh on David’s right is easy, easier than it was on the first night. It’s such a stark contrast with how tense Matteo gets on bad days that David wants to bottle up that laugh, make it into a miracle cure. He knows it doesn’t work like that, but it doesn’t mean he stops wanting to hear it.

He listens – to the crickets, the voices, the leaves moved by a gentle wind. David makes sure to remember it all and it’s so much easier when he knows he won’t have to solely rely on it for comfort. Mostly, David makes memories, remembers stories, tries to will the warmth in his bones to stay despite the coming autumn chill, despite the looming pressure of work, of university, the future.

For now, though, summertime is this: blinding sunshine, peeling skin, fingers sticky with the oranges they eat after dinner. Matteo’s fingers are a little gross against his when he catches David’s hand under the table, sure and light and there. David doesn’t seem to mind.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) first of all, a HUGE thank you to monia and jasmine, thank you for listening to me rabmle and figure stuff out and freak out about feeling lost. i love you. and another enormous thank you to lily, who came up with the title of the series <3  
> 2) i love feedback! so feel free to leave a kudo and comment if u want  
> 3) i'm on tumblr at @sweterki, you can stop by there as well  
> 4) most of all, thank you for reading!


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